"Certainly--at the inn--gobbling a trout, blaue gesotten--having gone into the kitchen to show a decent Scotch lassie how to concoct the Hunnish dish. I nailed them then and there--took the chance that the swine weren't right. And won out." "Good! But what has it to do with me?" asked McKay. "Well, I'll be telling you. I took the Boche to London and I've come all the way back to tell you this, Seventy-six; the Huns are on to you and what you're up to. That Boche laird called himself Stanley Brown, but his name is--or was--Schwartz. His gillie proved to be a Swede." "Have they been executed?" "You bet. Tower style! We got another chum of theirs, too, who set up a holler like he saw a pan of hogwash. We're holding him. And what we've learned is this: The Huns made a special set at your transport in order to get YOU and Seventy-seven! "Now they know you are here and their orders are to get you before you reach France. The hog that hollered put us next. He's a Milwaukee Boche; name Zimmerman. He's so scared that he tells all he knows and a lot that he doesn't. That's the trouble with a Milwaukee Boche. Anyway, London sent me back to find you and warn you. Keep your eye skinned. And when you're ready for France wire Edinburgh. You know where. There'll be a car and an escort for you and Seventy-seven." McKay laughed: "You know," he said, "there's no chance of trouble here. Glenark is too small a village--" "Didn't I land a brace of Boches at Banff?" "That's true. Well, anyway, I'll be off, I expect, in a day or so." He rose; "and now I'll show you a bed--" "No; I've a dog-cart tied out yonder and a chaser lying at Glenark. By Godfrey, I'm not finished with these Boche-jocks yet!" "You're going?" "You bet. I've a date to keep with a suspicious character--on a trawler. Can you beat it? These vermin creep in everywhere. Yes, by Godfrey! They crawl aboard ship in sight of Strathlone Head! Here's hoping it may be a yard-arm jig he'll dance!" He emptied his glass, refused more. McKay took him to the wicket and let him loose. "Well, over the top, old scout!" said Sixty-seven cheerily, exchanging a quick handclasp with McKay. And so the fog took him. A week later they found his dead horse and wrecked dog-cart five miles this side of Glenark Burn, lying in a gully entirely concealed by whinn and broom. It was the noise the flies made that attracted attention. As for the man himself, he floated casually into the Firth one sunny day with five bullets in him and his throat cut very horridly. But, before that, other things happened on Isla Water--long before anybody missed No. 67. Besides, the horse and dog-cart had been hired for a week; and nobody was anxious except the captain of the trawler, held under mysterious orders to await the coming of a man who never came.